The Letter
by Sound-Asleep
Summary: To whom it may concern -- in this case, all wizardfolk who care to hear the memoir of a Slytherin outcast.


_To the ones I call my brethren --_

I was not like the others. I never once fit in. For as long as I can remember, I was the outcast. It wasn't that they pushed me away – I just never bothered trying to change myself to their standards. To a limit, I think they despised me for it. The disdain that twisted their cruel lips into those ugly snarls, it was something I could not miss. No, never miss, not me at least. And though their disdain towards me was evident, it did not stop the ones who loathed _them_ from loathing me – I was different, and since when has anything other than normalcy been accepted?

But then, that's silly, isn't it? I mean, Harry Potter is the prime example of difference. He stuck out like a sore thumb at Hogwarts. People admired him, fawned over him, and people hated him, envied him. But the second he came out with the ghastly truth of Voldemort's return, he was something to be gawked at, a creature to be pitied and judged. After all, surely the Boy Who Lived, the one who unknowingly saved us all on more than one occasion, wouldn't bring such devastating news home? It is unkind to pull at people's fears like that.

Never the less, difference is looked down upon. And I am different.

I floated through all my school years in a vague haze; I never immersed myself in that society, never mingled with the students. On the urging of my father, I would trail the kids of my year and house, but it never amounted to much. They whispered about me behind my back; I was too good for them, they said, and I was a snotty, slimy bloke who wouldn't hesitate to stab them in the back. Though I was kept at an arms length, I was included all the same. But I never belonged.

Why would I continue to put myself through such torment? It never affected me much, see. I couldn't care less what they said behind my back. That was them, and they were entitled to their own opinions. I didn't think kindly of them either. I was also pressured by my father, who was discontent with my refusal to mingle with my own kind, my brethren, if you will. As it was, I never saw them as kin, for our blood was just that: blood.

For what made us so similar? Hatred? Prejudice? Is the pureblood mindset as archaic and idiotic as it seems now? Could something so trivial and unimportant weigh so heavily on esteemed, intellectual minds? I bore their sharp-tongued taunts as well as any teen could, barricading myself behind my own walls, counting down the days until my time at Hogwarts was spent. My freedom loomed in the horizon, freedom from silly ideals like the ones my family enforced.

As guarded as I was, _she_ tore down the walls with surprising ease.

Her presence made me spin; the rare moments I spent with her made it all worthwhile. Of course, she was just like them when _they_ were present – the others of our year, that is. But it was all at my own urging; I could not have them tormenting her as they did me, nor could I bear their alien pity. A man's pride, if you will, though I admit, I was far from a man and much closer to a boy.

It seems silly, now, seeing how fickle the heart can be. I fooled myself into thinking I loved her, even though I was sure she would never see me as I saw her.

Sixth year only made things worse for people like me. Malfoy's father was imprisoned in Azkaban after the famed battle at the Department of Mysteries, as was mine. With the knowledge of the battle came the ever-shocking news that Voldemort _had_ in fact returned – Potter was no longer the demented bad guy! Malfoy and I, among others, were held in low regard, me even more so because I was never liked in the first place. My dry wit never came across as good with the lot I associated with.

You may be wondering what my point is – and you have good reason to, mind you – and all I can say is that I'm getting there. Bear with me, please.

If I can direct your attention back to the gossip-worthy _her_ mentioned earlier, a female whose face and voice did insane things to not just my pulse but many others. She too tagged along with this two-faced lot I had grown to dislike. She, like my heart, was a fickle thing, jumping from bloke to bloke. In some unconscious way, she knew how I felt about our group, about the pureblood mania, even about _her_. She used this knowledge to her advantage, dangling her latest escapade before my nose, daring me to retaliate.

I refused to rise to her bait; after all, that was what she wanted. A confirmation of her suspicions, a surge of jealousy to come forth from the unremarkable, dull me.

It wasn't until the summer of our seventh year that I made my feelings plain to her. Needless to say, she was a rollercoaster of emotions; we had our ups and downs that summer. I no longer felt like the loner with her, not with her and her dominant personality. I felt, in all honesty, that she completed me. No longer was I the outcast, I felt, but an individual. But the coming year, my final year, brought on a haze of fear; we could not continue our relationship at Hogwarts.

Seventh year brought many changes. The death of Albus Dumbledore caused much grief and shock and even speculation. Potter was once again cast into a shaky light; Voldemort's power was growing, and Potter fled the spotlight in favor of hiding. But everywhere, my brethren – the witches and wizards I am proud to call my family – rose up and rebelled. She and I grew apart under the harsh regime inflicted at Hogwarts, despite our kind being the favored.

She supported the Dark Lord; I did not. Our differences led us apart, down two separate roads. She eventually faded from my heart. Even so, fear kept me from openly defying, like the once-considered-coward and now-courageous Neville Longbottom. His example was one I hoped to follow in, but my fear of the consequences overshadowed that spark of rebellion that yearned to ignite within me. To this day, I still feel shame in my heart for having waited so long.

It wasn't until one autumn day, another torturous, never-ending day, that I realized she may have felt something more for me, something more than I ever felt for her. Her actions led me wonder where she fit in to all the pureblood fanaticism. Did she serve the Dark Lord, like our housemates, or was she really a secret rebel, aiding the likes of Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley?

That crisp and autumn day, I truly saw her for the first time. I could see it in her eyes – she would hold her tongue and continue in secret as long as I kept my interminable silence. The bruise that smothered her wintry, heart-shaped face told me she was no longer as secretive as she hoped. And knowing, knowing the torment she must've been going through, watching me, her ever-valiant, ever-chivalrous knight flip-flopping on the verge of action... It left a white hot rage blossoming fervently within my crumbling heart. It wasn't where our loyalties lay, I realized with a pained thud in my chest, but my own cowardice that drew us apart.

She would not openly act without me. Such a realization reawakened fears.

I was not alone, that day, but I was different from them, the ones who openly spat on Voldemort's regime. I was not brave; I could not face the Death Eaters like them. In that, I'm sure she was disappointed in me. That lone autumn day was a day of understanding.

I would like to say that after seeing her so battered, I jumped to action, but I cannot lie. I did not work up the courage, not until the battle had really started.

"_If you are of age, you may stay."_

I still hear Professor Minerva McGonagall's voice. The reality of the situation did not come to light until that moment. The idea, the single thought that we could _stay_ and _fight_... It was breathtaking, nerve-wracking, and gut-wrenching all at once.

I could not move, still wrestling with my inner demons. I could hear both my father and my fellow housemates screeching horribly in my head, demanding to know why I was still considering the fight. I _wanted_ to fight, I knew that much, but I did not know if I _could_.

Not until Pansy Parkinson had screamed for Potter's capture did it really hit me that changes were coming, changes even bigger than the ones that occurred in our years at Hogwarts. The time was _now_, and if I wanted to live in a world where prejudice reigned and the different were scorned, then I could've been one of the many that shuffled out into the hall, following the coward's path.

But I didn't want that. I wanted change.

I remember finding her hand, Daphne's hand, and clasping it in my own. The protests around us were deafening, but all I can remember is her sweet smile and mischievous eyes, silently telling me that we would help bring down the most dangerous Dark Wizard of all time in our own small way. The impish glint of her blue-green eyes, both ecstatic and fearful of the challenge that awaited, it strengthened me.

Together, hand in hand, we stepped away from the ideals that held us back and into the dreams and hopes that we should've had in the first place.

We prevailed. Or, should I say, he prevailed? For it was Potter, all along, trudging through those murky waters all those years, different, all alone. But he was never alone, was he? He had – _has_ – friends. Their staunch support kept him going, I'm sure. Even after all those years of spite and disdain, it amazes me that the Boy Who Lived would suffer for our wellbeing. He created a better place for us to live, and those of us who fought, who rebelled, be it in loud or silent ways, we helped.

The blood status ideal was archaic. It needed to be changed. Knowing that I helped, however small my part was, gives me warm feeling, a luminous light of unwavering hope.

After all, what is blood, really? I refuse to think that our blood can define who we are. Be you a muggle or a halfblood or pureblood, we are all the same. Harry's fight, our fight... It was a fight against repressed individuality.

For why should we have to hide who we are? Why should our blood dictate how smart we are, or how strong we can be? Why should we force ourselves to become something else, when our true selves, our true personas, are so much more real?

I think, dear reader, that what I'm trying to say is that being different is not a bad thing. Never let one single, simple thing like blood define you. You are who you are, a unique individual, and anyone who says likewise is foolish and narrow-minded.

I was never like the other students. I never did want to fit in. I was different, and that, I think, has made all the difference in the world.

Yours,  
_Theodore Nott_


End file.
